


The First Snows

by TimmyJaybird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:05:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after my work "Little Songs", now delving into an alternate AU, where the Hound chooses to take Arya to the Eyrie, and finds a surprise waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Snows

Arya shivered as the wind howled, cold and icy, smelling like snow. Stranger walked solemnly and obediently over the road, the first road they had dared to take in a long time. Ahead, the Eyrie loomed, ominous and strange, a place Arya didn’t know.

_Winter is coming_ , she knew from the smell of the air. Her father had told her the way the air smells cold and icy before heavy snows, back when she was young. Thoughts of Lord Eddard still brought a frown to her face, and an ache in her chest.

She felt a thick arm wrap around her, and was pulled back against an armored, broad chest. She grimaced, even if the Hound’s heat seeped into her as they road. She had not forgotten Mycah, she had not forgotten she hated this man. But she hated being cold as well, and so silently pouted at they rode.

She wasn’t sure how he had gotten them past the Bloody Gate, or how he was going to talk his way into a trip up the mountain. She hadn’t paid much attention to what the Septa had had to say about the Eyrie during lessons, but she did know it was far up, and required climbing the mountain in order to even reach. Arya wondered how the Hound would fit- let alone Stranger.

“You won’t get us in,” she said, folding her arms over her dirty leather jerkin. “The guards won’t let just anyone all the way up to the Eyrie.”

“They’d let the Arryn bitch’s niece up,” he said calmly, his breath visible in the cold air.

“She won’t know me. I’ve _told_ you this.” She rolled his eyes, wondering how he could be so stupid, but said no more. She didn’t like opening her mouth to let all that cold in to chill her throat and tongue.

Higher up, within the walls of the Eyrie, Sansa sat on her bed. The maid who had slept in her room with her had been removed, so she was alone in the night. The room was cold, even though the window was closed tightly, and she wondered if there would be more snow. Snow reminded her of Winterfell, of home, something she desperately wanted right now.

In the distance, she could hear little Lord Robert screaming violently, as he had been since he was told of Lady Lysa’s death. The singer had been throat in a sky cell, and Sansa knew it was only a matter of time before he was tossed out the moon door. Robert wanted to see the bad man fly.

She curled up in her bed, under her blankets, and closed her eyes. Eventually he would stop, dreamwine sending him into a fitful sleep, and the Eyrie would be silent. The silence scared Sansa the most. She always feared she would hear his footsteps, soft and light, coming towards her room. After the kiss in the snow, after he had pushed Lady Lysa to her death, Sansa fear Lord Petyr almost as much as she had once fear Joffrey. His love for her dead mother was the only reason she didn’t fear him more.

It was daylight when Arya tried to sleep. She was restless on the itchy straw mattress she had been so given. She tosed onto her back and sighed, looked across the room at the Hound, who seemed dead to the world in sleep.

_How can he sleep in the broad daylight_ she wondered as cold light streamed through the window. Maybe she should have stayed up all night while they road, but she had been so exhausted. When she woke, they were riding up to a stone building, which she now knew had been the first waycastle on the way to the Eyrie, Stone. She had been groggy, but remembered the Hound whispering harshly at her to be quiet, and just nod like a good little girl. That angered her.

He had seen banners with a mockingbird on it, something Arya didn’t recognize, but he had. Baelish’s men. He had told the men who stopped them that the boy he had was to be a companion for the little Lord Robert, as per Littlefinger. Arya had tried to hide how tense she had felt while he lied through his teeth, cloak up over his scarred face to hide who he was. In the cold dark, no one had asked him to remove it, had nodded and told him to tread carefully on his way to Snow. They advised against continuing past Snow until he and the boy had gotten some rest.

And now, in a small room in the waycastle Snow, Arya lay, wondering what in all the hells was going on. She had been awake at dawn when they stopped, when Stranger was given rest in the barn and they were given these tiny rooms. The Hound made it clear they intended to leave in the afternoon, though he was advised to stop again once he reached Sky, and tread no further until he had daylight. He scoffed at that, though he did not challenge the men when they said Stranger would not be able to make the climb, and that they would need Mules.

Arya wondered if she could push him off the road and be done with it. She didn’t want to go to the Eyrie, even after the Hound has reminded her of who Littlefinger was. To her, he was just another man form King’s Landing who had done nothing to help her father.

Rolling onto her side, she curled up and closed her eyes, trying to will herself to sleep.

Come the warmer hours of the afternoon they set out, and made good time to the Sky gate. From there, the Hound and Arya were forced into a slow, sluggish pace, with a little local boy as a guide for them and their mules. Arya felt bad for the mule carrying the Hound, far smaller than Stranger, she wondered how it didn’t collapse under his weight.

“Fuck off,” he rasped at her one time he caught her looking too long, and she turned around, ice and fire in her veins- startled fear and anger. She folded her arms and pouted, still wondering if she would get the chance to push him off the mountain. It was dark, and had begun to snow, and Arya felt such a chill she thought she might freeze. When she complained, the guide told them it would have been smarter to wait until daylight again, that this pass was horribly cold, especially at night, and near impossible to navigate.

_Stupid Hound_ Arya thought _why couldn’t we be normal and sleep at night? I wouldn’t mind a straw mattress now._ She knew he wanted to get her to Lady Lysa as soon as possible though, so he could collect his ransom and finally be free of her. Arya didn’t mind the prospect of being free of him, but she didn’t like the idea of this aunt she did not know.

When they reached the Eyrie’s gates the snow had gotten worse. The guards stopped them, asked their business. Arya waited for the lie, but for once the Hound spoke the truth.

“She’s the Stark girl,” he said, “the younger one. Her aunt will want her.” The guards laughed at that, but did allow them to enter to get out of the cold wind and snow. White flakes clung to their clothing and their hair, and even inside Arya was still cold by the gates.

“Heard she was dead,” one guard said as he peered down at Arya.

“That’s no girl,” the other claimed, but before he could reach out to feel around her, the Hound smacked his hand away.

“Get your Lady, she’ll know her. Or Littlefinger, I saw his fucking birds everywhere.” The guards exchanged a look, one Arya didn’t like.

“The Lady Lysa is dead,” one said, and Arya had to fight off a grin. Not from the news, but the look that crossed the Hound’s face. Disbelief, shock, he was truly caught off guard.

“Might be Lord Baelish wants her though,” the other said. “He might know her, if she was at King’s Landing when he was.”

“She was,” the Hound said, giving Arya an annoyed look. The guards motioned them on, while two more took their place at the gate. They ventured into the Eyrie, growing no warmer as they were led to the audience chamber. The room was dark, lit by moonlight that feel atop the closed moon gate. Arya had heard vaguely of it, and seeing it closed left her feeling let down. It didn’t seem so bad.

The Hound, on the other hand, was careful to stop before his feet neared the edge.

Sitting atop a highback throne, Petyr Baelish had a glass on wine in one hand, and has been talking with a maester, obvious by the chains around his neck. He looked up at the guards who approached, then at the cloaked Hound and disheveled Arya.

“And who do we have here?” he asked, stopping his conversation and leaning on one pale hand. He fit perfectly in the white room, clean and crisp. Arya was suddenly aware of just how filthy she probably was, though she barely cared.

“Lord Baelish,” one of the guards spoke, “this man claims this girl is a Stark.”

Something in his eyes changed, though Arya missed it. The Hound caught it, but couldn’t read the emotion.

“Who are you?” he asked, eyeing the Hound, who pulled back his hood to reveal his burnt face and scraggly hair. Littlefinger smiled, amused, and stood up.

“Well, Joffrey’s dog. I had heard word you had run off from King’s Landing, though I hadn’t thought I’d ever find you myself.” He stepped down from the throne, but kept to the opposite side of the moon door. “And you’ve brought me the little Stark girl. Arya, isn’t it?” She nodded. “Ah, I thought so. Your father talked of you- or would have, had he trusted me more.”

_He was right not to trust you_ Arya thought, not liking this one bit.

“Where’s the Arryn bitch?” the Hound asked, and Littlefinger laughed.

“Dead, I dare say. Her faithful pet of a singer pushed her right through this moon gate. But not before I became Lord Protector of the Vale.” His smile was sly, and for a moment, Arya thought it scared her more than the Hound’s smile. Petyr looked back at Arya, studying her, and seemed about to speak when they heard someone calling out.

“Lord Baelish!” A slim figure came bursting in behind them, auburn hair long flowing in the cold wind that the chamber allowed in. “Please let me borrow the maester, Lord Robert is-“

She was cut short, staring at Arya. Her eyes widened, and Sansa lost her breath.

“Arya?” It was a whisper, but for the silence that fell on the room, it could have been a scream. Arya stared at her sister for a moment, then turned fully and ran to her, nearly jumping on her. Despite all that had happened, Sansa was still her blood, and possibly all that remained of it, except for Jon on the wall.

“Well, there’s no doubt it’s her then,” Littlefinger said as he walked around the moon door. He looked at the Hound, but the man didn’t notice him. He was staring at the two girls, his eyes giving away the shock of seeing the other Stark girl.

Sansa felt the eyes on her and looked up, noticing the Hound for the first time. She felt her heart leap up to her throat. In an instant she was back in her chambers at King’s Landing, with the smell of wine and blood and death in the air, wildfire burning in the water, shooting towards the sky. She felt his iron grip, his weight pressing her down, his rough mouth.

_No,_ she though, _no, that was a dream. He never kissed me._ She forced the thoughts down, but was unable to speak before Littlefinger.

“Maester, go see to little Lord Robert. He must be uncontrollable if it has brought Sansa to me.” The maester scuttled off, and Littlefinger motioned to the guards. “Take the younger one to have a bath and fresh clothes at once. Let’s get her into some proper lady’s-“

“No!” Arya called out, breaking away from her sister. “I won’t wear a dress.” She crossed her arms, and Littlefinger shrugged a delicate shoulder.

“Very well. Get her something of Lord Robert’s then. It should fit.” The guards nodded and led Arya off, Sansa watching where they were taking her so she could follow. “As for you,” he said, turning to the Hound, “I know you’ll want something. You wouldn’t bring me the Stark girl for free. I’ll see that a bag of gold dragons is found for you.” The Hound said nothing, but looked quickly at Sansa, though it appeared he looked at the gate behind him. Sansa stared at him, wanting to run over to him, to cry out in joy that he was back. And at the same time to hit him, to pound her fists into his chest and scream that he left her, he left her to Joffrey and the Queen and that cruel city.

“I’d see you off tonight,” Littlefinger began, “but the snow is coming down too heavy. In the morning you can begin back down the mountain, and by on your way. Until then, allow me to offer you a place here in the Eyrie. Clean yourself up, have some wine, get some sleep, it will do you good dog.”

Sansa saw the hate flash in the Hound’s eyes, but he had no choice but the accept, and but on that fake obedience she had seen for Joffrey. Littlefinger motioned to the other guard to escort the Hound, then walked over to Sansa and took her arm, leading her off and talking about how good it was to have both her and Arya together again.

Sansa looked back and caught the Hound’s eyes, eating into her, bright and white and still wild.

Arya sat in warm, dirty bath water that seemed only moments ago to be hot and clean. A maid was scrubbing her raw, turning her skin pink. She protested, pouted, tried to fight, but in the end all she could do was sit there and take the scrubbing.

Sansa had come in part way into the bath, once the heaviest layer of filth had been scrubbed away. The maids were emptying some of the tub, ready to fill it with cleaner water. Arya sat half submerged, naked and pink and bony, and Sansa felt her chest clutch. Her sister had always been small, but never that bony.

“Let me,” she said, walking over the one of the two maids and taking the brush they were using. “She’s my sister, I can clean her just fine. You can leave us.”

The two looked at each other, as if to protest, but in the end curtsied and left, the door closing heavy behind them. Sansa turned to her sister, now hidden by more of the water, and smiled.

“I’ve missed you,” she admitted. “It’s been so lonely with no one around.”

“You’ve been surrounded by people!” Arya nearly shouted, splashing some of the water. “I’ve been with just the Hound for I don’t even know how long!” She crossed her arms, muttering against the man, and Sansa bit her rosy lip, trying to ignore her as she pushed her sleeves up and gently scrubbed her back.

Once Arya was clean and dressed, Sansa took her out of her room in search of food. The girl complained she was starving, and Sansa could not argue with that. She took her to the kitchens, where the maids had escaped to talk and drink wine. When they saw her, they giggled at Arya, but welcomed her in with promises of food. Hot food for a chilly night.

Sansa promised to be back for her soon, and told the maids she herself wanted to sit down in her room alone for a bit. Finding her lost sister had sent her into shock, she claimed, and upset her tummy. They nodded and let her go, distracted by Arya as she eyed the bread that was almost done baking.

Sansa stole down the hallways, not sure where she was going. Arya had been placed in a room close to hers, but she did not know where Littlefinger would have sent the Hound. Nor had she truly learned the Eyrie, so even if she had an idea of where he was, she would not be able to find him.

The guards who had brought Arya and the Hound in were ahead of her, she realized. Most of the Eyrie still thought she was Alayne Stone, Petyr’s bastard daughter, but these were his men, and if they had been shocked to hear it was a lie when Arya ran to her, they didn’t show it.

Sansa dipped around a corner and pressed against the wall, listening to their words.

“The bastard’s bigger than I thought,” one said, and the other laughed.

“If you think he’s big, you should see his brother. The Mountain eclipses the Hound.” The other man laughed nervously.

“Think that room will be big enough?”

“Doesn’t matter, he’ll be gone in the morning.” Their voices faded as they continued on, and Sansa eyed the halls, trying to figure out where they had come from.

She walked across the hall and opened a door a crack, finding a dark, empty room. A room built for a guest, though. _Perhaps this whole wing is for guests,_ she thought Untitled document - Google Drive _so he must be in one of these rooms._

Sansa ran down the hall, stopping at every door, listening for sounds. She did not know who else could be in attendance in any of these rooms, and she feared bursting in beyond the first empty room. She pressed her ear to every door, listening for sounds, but came away with only silence.

Collapsing onto the ground, she leaned against the last door, having heard nothing, and stared out a large window set into the wall, the curtains left open so she could see the night snow. She felt her eyes stinging, felt angry at herself. She had him, for just a moment, and then he was gone.

_I should have followed him_ she thought _it would be easy to find Arya here, I could ask anyone. There would be nothing wrong with that. But I can’t ask for the Hound._

She sobbed quietly, looking down at the floor, at her palms. Her tears stained her cheeks, dripped into her open palms. She barely felt the door next to her open.

“What are you doing here, child?”

She looked up, hair whipping around her, and saw his bright eyes staring down at her. The Hound stood in the doorway, but did not fill it as he once would have in his armor. In just leather and cloth, he seemed less of a wall, but still fearsome.

Sansa found she couldn’t speak. She tried to move her lips, but no sounds came out. The only sound to fill the hallway was that of the footsteps of the guard. Moving quickly, the Hound bent and grabbed her arm, pulling her up. She fell against him and he tugged her into his room, closing the door quietly.

The room was dark, he hadn’t lit a lamp or a candle. Moon shone in through an open window, but that was it. Sansa felt her heart beating frantically, her back to the door, the Hound dangerously close, his iron grip still on her arm.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again, and Sansa began to stammer,

“I...I was trying to find you. I didn’t know where to look after I went with Arya and-“

He silenced her, a rough, calloused finger pushing against her soft lips. She watched his eyes darken slightly at the contact, as if he had not expected them to feel like silk.

“No, here, in the Eyrie.”

“Oh,” she said softly as he moved his finger. “Lord Baelish, he helped me escape after Joffrey died. He had him poisoned. Then he brought me here, for my aunt. Only... only she’s dead now, and she only wanted me to marry me to Lord Robert, for my claim.”

The Hound eyed her. It was easy to forget that the girl in front of him was heir to the burned remains of Winterfell.

“You’re already married,” he said, poison laced in his raspy voice. Sansa pressed further back against the door, wanting to disappear into the wood. His eyes seemed rabid again, bright and horrifying.

“Not by _choice_ ,” Sansa said, angry underneath her fear. “The Queen tricked me. I was going to go to Highgarden, and marry a Tyrell, but suddenly I have a Lannister cloak over my shoulders and a husband.” Her cheeks were wet again, thinking of it. “Not that it matters. Lord Baelish said that Tyrion is taking the blame for Joffrey’s death, and that he’ll surely lose his head. I’ll be a widow before winter even comes.”

She pulled her arm free from his grip, hugging her own shoulders. The idea scared her. She felt no love for her husband, but if there was a good Lannister in Westeros, it was him. She didn’t want him to die because of this, she just didn’t want to be his little wife.

The Hound stepped back, giving her room to breathe, and she brushed past him. The room he was in was small, smaller than hers or the one given to Arya, but not unpleasant. Sansa walked to the window, placed her hands on the sill and stared out into the snowing night.

“I was happy to see you,” she admitted, without looking back. “By the moon door. I couldn’t believe Arya was here, with me again. Even if she’s a beast of a sister, she is still mine. And all I have left.” Her grip tightened. “And then I saw _you_ , and I... I was even _happier_.”

She heard footsteps, but didn’t turn, kept her eyes locked outside, watching the snow. Just like home, just like Winterfell.

She felt him grip her arm and turn her around, gently this time. She looked up at him, at his confused face, at the scars that even his wet, now clean hair and the darkness couldn’t hide. She reached up, touched the fingers that gripped her one arm.

“You _left_ me,” she said, choking on the words. “You left me alone with Joffrey and the Queen and all those other wretched Lannisters.” She shivered in the cold, felt the air coming through the window. She was always cold here, she missed the warmth at King’s Landing, in her chambers, with him.

_No, a dream,_ she reminded herself again. _Don’t be a fool. It was hot because of the wildfire. He left you, he never kissed you, he’s not what you’ve wanted._ But her own mind felt alien, and Sansa could barely understand her thoughts.

“I’ve been reliving that night every time I close my eyes.” She tried to pull away, but the Hound pulled her closer, silent even by his standards, listening to her feverish, childish words. “Every night I sleep, I’m back there, with the wildfire burning, with the smell of wine and blood and death and fire. And you’re there, you’re _always_ there, caked in blood and drunk and hot as the fire itself.” Her heart began to rise in her throat, thinking of it. “And you _leave_ me like you did, every night... except, sometimes you come back.”

Sansa began to shiver, and one the Hound’s arms wrapped around her shoulders. She leaned into his broad chest, one hand gripping onto the leather that clothed him.

“You’re alright, little bird,” he said, raspy and quiet. Sansa cried again, sobbing softly, both hands gripping onto him now. She hadn’t felt safe enough to finally sob to anyone, but this was _the Hound_ , and he would never hurt her. He had said so. Or had she dreamt that as well?

“I don’t want to be here,” she said, her tears streaking over her cheeks. “I want Winterfell. I don’t care if it’s burned to the ground. It’s still _home_.” She felt his other arm around her, and eased into him more, small and thin and brittle, so easily broken, so young and innocent. “I want my mother and my brothers, my father, I want _Lady_. I want...”

She trailed off. What else? She had Arya back, but she wanted more, more than her mother and brothers and her father, more than her wolf. She wanted _him_ , she wanted him to take her away, because she knew no one else could.

Her tears stopped, slowly, and she stood in the darkness, in the silence, and let the man who had saved her life, who had shielded her from the mad boy king, who had left her alone in that city of fools hold her, and say nothing.

Footsteps along the hall finally stirred Sansa. The Hound was the first to step back, quickly, and Sansa felt frantic as she realized they were coming towards them.

“Hide child,” he said, releasing her into the darkness of the room. Sansa scrambled over to the bed, flattening herself onto the floor away from the door. The Hound turned just as the guards pounded on his door, almost violently. When he opened it, Sansa held her breath.

 

“Lord Baelish said you’d be happy for this,” one guard said, holding out a flagon of wine. He peered into the room, nearly black. “Why is there no light?”

“The dog hates fire,” the other pointed out, “he probably couldn’t bring himself to light a candle.” The two laughed, and Sansa heard the low, rasping of sound of the Hound’s voice, but not wait he said. Whatever it was, it was enough to send the guards off. The door closed, she heard footsteps, and the bed shifted.

“Come out, little bird,” he almost whispered, and Sansa obeyed. She stood, awkwardly staring at his back, and watched as he took a long pull from the wine. “Sit. I won’t bite you.”

Sansa obeyed, sitting slighty beside him, yet behind him. She watched him take another drink, before he held the flagon towards her, without looking at her. Sansa took it, taking a drink, letting the wine rush to her head, but she didn’t feel fuzzy. She handed it back, fingers brushing his, and remembered his grip that night. Dream and reality, he had held her in his iron grip, had held her close, as he had just moments ago.

“Where will you go when you leave?” she asked, trying not to fool herself. She was sick of acting the girl, even if she wanted to believe in her stories of knights and ladies. There was no knight to save her, and certainly not the Hound. He would go again, and this time she didn’t think she would see him again.

“North still sounds good,” he admitted. “The farther from the city the better.” She nodded, inched closer to him.

“If you make it to Winterfell, stop for me.”

He looked at her, his eyes dim, solemn. “Aye, little bird,” he said, “I will.”

She stood then, walking around the bed, stopping in front of him. In the dark he looked almost like he did that night in her chambers, except he lacked his heavy armor, and she knew he wasn’t sticky with blood. She reached out without much thought, finger tips tracing along his jawline on his right cheek, feeling his beard, the skin beneath. She took her hand back, reached out with her other one, trembling. He was going to disappear again, and she knew this was the last time she would have the chance to do this.

Carefully, her fingers touched his scars, the rough, rippled skin. They traced up, to his hair, cold from water and the air. Her fingers sunk into it, her thumb stroking his burned skin gently. His eyes had widened, as if he had seen wildfire in her, and then he was pulling her closer, down to him, so her face was close. His hand trailed down her arm to her hand, gripping her fingers.

And pulling them away. “Go, little bird,” he said, his voice a strained rasp. His eyes were dark and warm, like a black fire, and Sansa didn’t move. “Go,” he said again, and carefully Sansa took her hand back and turned, walking to the door. She hesitated a moment, snuck a glance back at him, though he was just a shadow, and crept into the light of the cold hallway.

Sansa found Arya still in the kitchen, sitting with the maids, her eyes glazed over from all the food she ate and the exhaustion creeping in on her. Sansa led her back to her room, tucked her in, and watched for a few moments as Arya fell asleep on the soft bed. Then she crept back to her own room, into the dark, and curled up under her blanket.

She wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry. Instead she closed her eyes and cradled the hand that had touched his scars, her lips brushing her fingertips, hoping for one more dream.

Behind her eyes she was back in her chambers, with wildfire burning bright outside. The clash of steel rang in the hot darkness, and she felt it beneath her fingertips as they slid over his armor, slick with blood and water. He had her pinned against her bedchamber walls, her breasts pressed against hard plate. His lips ate at hers, and she allowed it, craved it, mimicked his movements as her hands reached up for him. One stayed on his plate, the other traced his scars, tangled in his hair. He kept his head bowed towards her mouth, tasted wine and blood that made her feverish.

Against the booming of the cracking ships and the dying screams of men, Sansa felt his leg wedge her legs apart, and she gripped it with her quivering thighs, whimpers rising in her throat. She felt his hands on her arms, that tight iron grip, relished it, needed it.

“Little bird.”

She heard it in a whisper, in that steal on stone raspy whisper, but how? His mouth was still on hers, how could he speak? She heard it again, this time louder, and suddenly she couldn’t feel his body, or taste his mouth, or hear the sounds of war outside.

Sansa opened her eyes, stared up into the dark. The juncture of her thighs ached, and her heart was thudding in her throat, in her veins. There was a shadow in the dark, she could just see it in the moonlight. She sat up, pushing her hair away from her face.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, and he knelt down next to her bed.

“What I should have done at King’s Landing.” He pushed a stray strand of auburn hair from her cheek. “I’m taking you home.”

Sansa felt her heart stop, her body tingled. _Home?_ Did he mean to take her to Winterfell? Did he mean to not leave her alone again?

“Get dressed,” he said, “we’re leaving. If we wait there will be no way to get you out of here.”

“There’s guards,” she said, shoving her blanket away and standing.

“Fuck the guards.” She smiled at that and stepped into the moonlight, the beams illuminating her. Her white cotton nightgown was thinner than it should have been for the cold night, and the light gave glimpses of the skin beneath. Sansa saw the Hound stare at her, like he had before he told her to leave his room. That same dark, hungry look that confused her.

“What?” she asked softly as he stood. He reached for her, pulled her against him then, buried his face in her hair, in the crook of her shoulder. She gasped, taken aback, and clutched at his shoulders for support. One arm wrapped around her waist, and he could have lifted her easily, she felt it. Part of her wanted him to. Lift her up and hold her, and bury her back down in her bed, or against the wall. Or the window...

Sansa didn’t know what was coming over her. Frightened and so eager, she clutched harder, felt his scars brush her cheek as he straightened up, a pained and guilty look in his eyes.

“Get dressed,” he said again, trying to release her. Sansa held firm.

“No,” she whispered, so faint he could barely hear her. “Not yet.” This was her chance, her only chance, she knew. His guard was down, it was plain in his black eyes, and she had to know why she kept dreaming of his kiss,

Even if it meant forsaking her return to Winterfell.

She gripped his clothing, felt mail beneath, and pulled him down, hard. He leaned down, following her lead, unsuspecting, and Sansa closed the gap, her rose petal lips claiming his. She kissed him like he kissed her in her dreams, with a feverish fury, a haunting need that she did not fully understand, but felt in her tummy, in her womanhood, in the tips of her breasts and the pores of her skin. She fought his lips for control, in his shock winning easily. She reached for one of his hands, took it, guided it up to her waist. She wanted him to grip onto her, to hold her, feel her.

He did grip her waist, and as his shock faded, so did her control. The Hound wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up, so their faces were even. Her hands found his cheeks, touching, caressing, nails burying in his stubble, keeping his lips close to hers. As her mouth opened for air she whimpered, he groaned in response, kissing her now, taking all her control.

He only parted from her to drop her, oddly gently, on her bed, and crawl over her. Suddenly she was pinned as she had been in many dreams, her chest to his, lips a tangle of endless kisses, hands roaming. One of his ran up her lithe body, over her tender breasts. She felt a jolt and pushed against his hand, whimpering, wanting him to touch her more. Through the night gown he felt one of her rosy nipples harden against his palm as he kneaded her breast gently.

He left her gasping as his lips found her neck, his scarred skin brushing against her soft cheek. She shivered, loved the feeling, whatever it was.

She wasn’t dumb, Sansa knew what should have happened in her wedding bed, what Joffrey had threatened to do to her. Fuck her, like the men in King’s Landing wanted to rape her, she knew. But she hadn’t expected this ache between her thighs, or the way her skin felt alive and moving. She hadn’t expect to want something so badly she had not even experienced.

The Hound bit at her skin along the neckline of her gown, and Sansa moaned. She wanted his lips lower, to feel his scars on her breasts, her tummy, her thighs, every bit of skin on her body.

“Please,” she begged, “ _please_ Ser Sandor.” His name felt alien on her tongue. He had always been the Hound, though she knew his name, his house, his banner. He had always been an animal, not a man.

His name stopped him, brought him back from whatever spiraling, intoxicating state he had slipped into. He looked up at her, his grip on her loosening, and Sansa wanted to cry out. _No, don’t stop._

But he was climbed off her, not looking her in her eyes.

“I’m no _ser_ ,” he reminded her. He reached up, raked a hand over his face, frustration and strain on his face. “Please,” he said, the words now choking him, “get dressed. We need to _leave_.”

This time Sansa didn’t fight him. He kept his back to her as she changed, slipped a cloak on, brushed her tussled auburn hair. Then she was at his side, creeping to the door.

“Where’s your sister?” he asked.

“Just down the hall.”

The Hound cracked the door open, then pulled Sansa out with him. The crept down to Arya’s room and inside, where Sansa ran to her and shook her awake, the Hound staying by the door, hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Wake up Arya,” Sansa said as her sister’s eyes cracked open. She looked around, groggy.

“What?” she asked, angry. She wanted to sleep longer.

“Get dressed,” Sansa urged, “we’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” the younger Stark girl asked as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Sansa was rushing around in the dark, trying to piece together some of little Lord Robert’s clothes for Arya.

“Yes, we’re going to Winterfell.”

_But there’s just ash there_ Arya thought, but didn’t voice it. The thought of going home far out weighed how diminished it had gotten. She dressed quickly, quicker than Sansa had, and once again the Hound was checking the door.

“Stay close,” he said as they stepped out. Sansa held Arya’s hand tightly, determined to not be separated again. The Hound led, moving fast, his footsteps heavy. The halls were deserted at this hour, the guards few, and posted at the gate and Lord Baelish’s chambers.

As they neared the gate the Hound held his arm out, stopping the girls.

“Stay here,” he said, and Arya protested.

“I can help!” she said excitedly, but was shut down by his glare. He rounded the corner, and the guards yelled at him, asking his business at the gate at this hour. Sansa and Arya peered around the corner, saw them draw their steel before he drew his. One swept his sword in a downward cut that the Hound side stepped, unsheathing his own sword in time to perry the other guard. He kicked the first, sending him sprawling back, and cut across the belly of the second. His sword was sharp and cut past fabric and meat, into his belly. He dropped to his knees as the Hound stepped over the other one, putting a heavy foot on his gut and driving his sword into his heart.

Sansa didn’t wait for him to call to her and Arya, she pulled her over and they ran. The Hound cut down a guard before he even saw them outside, then stopped as one attacked him with quick, light strokes.

“Go!” he shouted, and Sansa looked around as to where. There was a light in the distance, where they kept the mules for the trips up and down the mountain, and she dragged Arya towards it. She could still hear steel in the background ashtye threw open the door. Inside, the Mules stood in the warm hay, chewing away on feed.

Sansa grabbed one’s bridal and led it out.

“Get on,” she called to Arya, who listened, hopping on. Sansa smacked it, and it trotted off towards the door. She grabbed a second, leading this one out, hurrying as fast as she could.

Outside, the Hound was stalking towards them, his sword bloody. He sheathed it as Sansa held him the reins, and he gave her a queer look.

“They’re too slow,” he said.

“They’ll be faster than if we go on foot,” she pointed out, then walked over to Arya’s and hopped on.

They rode down the mountain towards Sky, in the dark, on mules with no guide. They went slower than Sandor and Arya had originally, having to dismount more often and guide the animals. By the end they were on foot, the animals no longer listening.

Arya and the Hound had thick boots, and had no trouble with the stones and snow, but Sansa was in slippers she had been given in the Eyrie, and had to cling to the rocky wall for support. Her throbbed and ached when they finally reached Sky. By then the sky was beginning to take light.

“That took too long,” Arya complained. “They’ll know we’re gone, and we’ve got two more gates to go.”

The Hound hushed her, unsheathing his sword. Stranger was stabbled here, and once he got that horse, they would make much better time.

The crept around to the stables. Inside they could hear guards, drunk on wine. The Hound wasted no time, throwing open the door and sticking one in the gut before he had time to scream. The other followed quickly, his neck a wide, grinning red mouth.

Stranger stomped his hooves at the intrusion, and tried to charge at Arya as she neared. She jumped back, cursing herself for forgetting the horse’s manner. The moment Sandor opened the gate though, he was as calm as a kitten. The Hound lifted Arya up, then climbed on himself. He extended a hand for Sansa, pulling her on behind him, as the girl silently prayed the horse could handle all the weight.

She clutched her arms around him tightly as the horse took off, galloping out of the barn and through the snow. Sansa clutched onto the back of Arya’s shirt, worried the girl would topple off.

They slowed their ride as the sun rose higher, Stranger showing some fatigue from the many riders. By then they were approaching Snow.

“We’re obvious,” Arya pointed out, “anyone would recognize us, even if we put our cloaks up.”

“Just do it,” Sansa whispered, raising the food of hers to hide her hair and face. Arya scoffed, but listened. The Hound was the last one, taking one last look at the waycastle, before they approached.

The mid day hustle has a mix of Lord Baelish and Arryn men moving around. Sansa knew they had been preparing to retreat to a winter castle, and the confusion seemed to give them enough cover to pass almost undetected.

As they passed the main building, where the men slept and drank and whored with the various woman, one called out to them.

“Where are you heading to?” the guard asked. Sansa felt Arya stiffed under her cloak, and spoke without thinking, before the Hound would open his mouth.

“To make a man of this little one,” she called out, giving Arya a gentle shove. “His father is kind enough to spare some silver so he’s no longer a little maid.”

The man laughed, slapping his thigh.

“Ride him good, wench!” he yelled as they continued on. Sansa exhaled, leaing forward against Sandor, no one speaking until they were out of earshot.

“What was that?” Arya asked as the waycastle disappeared behind them. “Why pretend to be a whore? Just let the Hound and I chop them down!”

“You don’t even have a weapon girl,” the Hound pointed out, “be glad the little bird can sing a few songs of her own.” Sansa smiled, resting her cheek against his back, her eyes heavy. She drifted a little as they rode, slowly, until the sky had clouded over and was threatening snow. They disappeared into the trees, taking advantage of the darkness to rest.

“I heard there’s men in these mountains,” Arya said excitedly as she slid of Stranger. “I wonder if we’ll see any.”

“Best hope not,” the Hound said as he dismounted and gave the horse a pat on its neck. He lifted Sansa off gently, his hands on her waist spreading warmth through her. “You’ve got no weapon, and just me. I could cut them down, but you would get yourself into the thick of it.”

Arya folded her arms and complained, throwing in that she was hungry. Sansa had been ignoring the growling in her own stomach. She knew they had no food, they couldn’t even make a fire. Their survival depended on them getting out of the Eyrie quickly.

“Only a few hours,” the Hound said as he took his cloak off and laid it over the snow. “That’s all we can spare.” He sat down on it, and Arya sat as far away from him as she could. Sansa sat between them, and watched as Arya laid down, curled up under her cloak, and was asleep within minutes. The Hound had laid down on his back, his breath visible in the cool evening air, the tree above them keeping most of the snow away.

Sansa undid her cloak slowly, pulling it off her and laying it over her legs. She tossed it over his as well, and he looked at her as she lay down, her back to him, an arm draped over Arya’s body. Sansa waited, wanting to fell his arm curl around her, but unsure if he would, if he’s want her pressed against him. She felt heart rising in her, thinking of his mouth, his hands last night on her, how she had _wanted_ him. She was realizing that was what it was. She wanted him, in a way she had not wanted anyone else. Not Joffrey, when she still saw him as a stunning Lion, nor her lion husband, or Ser Loras in his Tyrell beauty, or any other knight. She wanted him to engulf her, to embed within her skin and blood, to have her skin melt over his scars as she caressed them.

Worrying her lip, she felt his arm drape over her, pull her body against his. His fingers traced her navel through her dress, but ventured no further. She sighed softly, heard him whisper, “Little bird,” and smiled as sleep over took her.

Sansa dreamed of her bedchambers at King’s Landing again. Of wildfire in the water and her blood, of the Hound’s hungry mouth and strong hands, and her own budding desires. She could feel every detail of his hands, his mouth, and she whimpered, begged.

“Is she having a nightmare?” Arya asked as she straightened her own cloak. She had woken as she heard the Hound moving, getting Stranger ready to continue. Sansa still slept on the blanket, whimpering softly.

“Get on the horse,” he said to Arya, hurrying her along, before he knelt down next to Sansa. He knew that whimper, he would never forget the little noises she had made as he kissed her. He touched her shoulder, giving her a gentle shake.

“Little bird,” he said. “You’re dreaming.”

Sansa opened her eyes and smiled at him, still half dreaming. Her smile was bright and innocent, happy as she didn’t know where she was, and it made Sandor want to scoop her up and kiss her all over again. She was too beautiful for her own good.

“It’s time to go, little bird,” he said as he helped her stand. She rubbed one of her eyes, looking around, realizing where she was. She stepped off his cloak and he shook it out, then fastened it on and mounted Stranger. He pulled Sansa up, who gripped onto him as they took off in a run.

They just had to get through Stone, and then they could be free of the Eyrie. If they traveled without stopping, they could probably find an inn somewhere so they could get some proper sleep.

It was dark, which helped to conceal them as they rode, but proved troublesome at the waycastle. The guards were out, and there was no reason for anyone to be traveling in the black snow. The Hound stopped Stranger in the dark around the waycastle, slipping off and unsheathing his sword.

“Stay here,” he said, but once he was a good distance away Arya slipped right off the horse.

“What are you doing?” Sansa asked.

“Following him. There’s got to be a weapon there I could use.” She darted off, and Sansa had no choice but to dismount and follow. She could tell Stranger wouldn’t listen to her, and just hoped the horse would stay put, or follow.

The snow was cold on her feet, slipping over her slippers. In the dark of the night she could see the fires burning at the waycastle, and hear the clang of steel as the chaos began. She ran past one dead guard, losing sight of Arya as she rounded a corner and barrelled off into one of the buildings.

“Arya!” she called, stopping on the cobblestones and looking around. She heard heavy footfalls and turned to see a guard running at her. He grabbed her around her shoulders, pulling her hood down and spilling her auburn hair.

“We got word you might be coming through here,” he said, dragging her towards one of the buildings. “Lord Baelish sent birds out to all the gates. He’ll give me some reward for handing you over to him.” He spilled her down onto the hard, cold floor with bruising force. Sansa pushed herself up on her hands and stared up at him, wide eyed as he barred the door behind him. “He won’t notice if I’ve had a little fun first,” he said, taking a step towards her, a starving look in his eyes she had seen before. At King’s Landing, in the hatred of the men who had grabbed at her, who had meant to take her maidenhood and bloody and bruise her thighs.

He reached down for her, tearing her cloak away from her. He grasped at her chest, gripping her breast so tightly it would bruise. Sansa cried out, tried to kick him, but he straddled her waist. He was ripping at the ties to his pants as she squirmed. A he pulled out a dagger in his free hand and held it to her throat, poking into her soft skin.

“Fight me, and I’ll fuck your corpse,” he said, and Sansa froze. He hiked her dress up, running his one hand over her smooth pale thigh, when the wooden door broke off its hinges. Splinters flew, and in the blink of an eye the guard atop Sansa lost his head to a heavy stroke of the sword. It rolled away and his body fell to the side. Sansa stared up, wide eyed and terrified as the Hound rushed over, getting on the ground and pulling her up into a sitting position.

This was the second time he had saved her from rape, and even in her fear she knew this.

“You’re alright,” he said, stroking her hair. “I told you I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, little bird.” He stood, and before he could try to lift her, she simply took his hand and started for the door. She knew she would weigh him down.

Arya was sitting atop Stranger, who was stomping his hooves and snorting in annoyance, looking around as the fires burning in the buildings, the bodies beginning to burn. Sansa let the Hound mount first, and climbed on herself before he could even help her. He grabbed the reins and turned Stranger, and off they were running, far away from the last waycastle, and the Eyrie.

No one spoke, or barely breathed, until the fires were far in the distance. It would take the whole night and most of the next day going non stop to get even close to an inn, Sansa figured, and even then they were still in the Eyrie.

Arya was wide awake from her adrenaline rush, but Sansa was exhausted as the night wore on from her fear. She slumped against Sandor as they rode, her grip lost on Arya's cloak, her hands falling into his lap, or clutching around him in her sleep. The Hound wanted to stop, to wrap the little bird up and watch her sleep, but with the younger Stark there, it was impossible. He didn’t want to risk her running off, nor could he openly watch her sister. It was risky enough to let Sansa nuzzle into his back as she slept while Arya was awake.

Snow continued the next day, heavy and wet. When Sansa awoke Arya was asleep in front, the Hound himself exhausted but continuing on. When they finally saw burning torches in the distance it was a relief so lifting Sansa thought she could fly.

The inn was small but still occupied, safe in the Eyrie away from most of the war. The Hound kept his cloak up as he handed Stranger off to a man, giving him a warning to keep his distance from the horse.

Inside the dinning room was warm from a fire. Two men sat eating, a flagon of wine between them, while a few girls sat at a table, braiding each other’s hair. Their breasts seemed to be falling out of their dresses round and full, and made Sansa cover her chest as she felt so small in comparison.

The Hound produced some silver, though Sansa wasn’t sure from where, they should could speculate it had come from the Stone waycastle, and bought them some food. Arya ate like a growing boy, fighting her part perfectly, but Sansa ate sparingly. She was more tired than hungry, and thirsty when she saw the Hound pouring a cup of wine.

“May I have some?” she asked, painfully aware she herself had no coin, and that he was not only the only reason they were almost out of the Eyrie, but the reason they could have a real roof and food. He poured her a glass, and when she took it Sansa took care to run her fingers over his, to smile at him despite the aches in her body and the sleep that she craved.

The room they were to share was small, with a single bed. The Hound barred the door with a small chair that was in the room, while Arya removed her cloak and one of her shirts, slipping into the bed and falling right into her blissful, heavy sleep.

“Go child,” the Hound urged Sansa, moving his head towards the bed. “Get some sleep.”

“Will we all fit?” she asked, looking at it. He didn’t answer, but sat in the chair he had set in front of the door. When she looked back and saw, she frowned. “Please no, you need sleep more than any of us. We wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”

He gave her a smile, not so wicked as she had seen, but said nothing. Sansa sighed, pulling her cloak off. She dropped it to the floor as she leaned closer to him.

“ _Please_ ,” she whispered, “come to bed with me. I won’t be able to sleep unless you do.”

Sansa hadn’t meant for her words to have a spark, but she saw that lit a fire in the Hound’s eyes. She placed her hands on his shoulders, feeling leather and mail and cloth, and eased herself onto his lap, her legs draped over his lap. One of her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and she leaned her head against him, one of her fingers stroking the sensitive skin along his neck and jawline. His arms wrapped around her, solid as a shield, and despite the wildfire she had seen in his eyes he just held her.

When Sansa awoke, she was on the bed, the night and darkness dead around her. Against her back Arya slept, her breathing soft, mummbling something here and there.

Holding her tightly was the Hound, asleep as well, his arms locked around her, keeping her against his chest. He had removed the mail, the boiled leather, and was left in simply cloth. Sansa flexed her fingers against his chest, wiggled a little bit, and saw his eyes open. Her breath caught, startled at the explosion of the whites of his eyes in the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as quietly as she could, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He loosened his hold on her, and Sansa carefully sat up. The three of them were on their sides, the only way they could all fit on the bed. Sansa saw the Hound was dangerously close to the edge, and could see the pommel of his sword, sheathed and propped against the bed next to him. By the door, she could make out the outline of the chair, tilted now to try and hold the door better. It would do little good if someone tried to come in, but it would make noise.

The Hound began to move, as if to get up, and Sansa placed a hand on his chest, shaking her head. _Stay_ she mouthed, her fingers tracing up his chest, cursing the cloth in her mind, the way it held back flesh and warmth from her.

“A dog has no place in bed next to a married woman,” he rasped, and Sansa felt the her blood turn to ice. He lifted her hand away, but she gripped his, lacing her fingers between his.

“Not by _choice_ ,” she said, her voice nearly cracking.

“Aye, not to the Imp. But a _Tyrell_ maybe.”

Sansa frowned, glared. She pulled her hand back, wanting to inch away from him, but having nowhere to go.

“And who would you have me marry?” she asked. “Is not a Tyrell better than a Lannister? At least they were willing to take me away from King’s Landing. At least they were going to help me.”

“And where are they _now_?”

Sansa said nothing. She knew, they had to still be at King’s Landing. She thought of Margery, of Joffrey’s widow, or Ser Loras and the Queen of Thorns. Had any of them truly meant to help her? Sansa feared not, not when she was the heir to the remains of Winterfell, believed to be the last trueborn Stark. No one would help her so long as she had Winterfell.

And yet, the Hound was. He was the only one who had risked _anything_ for her. Sansa worried her lip, reached back for him, sorry she had said anything, but he gripped her wrists and kept her touch firmly away.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she said, a little too loudly she knew. “They’re not going to help me, either. It’s childish to think so.” She closed her eyes, pictured Ser Loras in all his knightly beauty, the perfect picture from the stories of her childhood.

And when she opened her eyes, she saw the Hound’s rugged face, his scars, his limp hair as her eyes adjusted more and more. The opposite of the Knight of Flowers, but more of a knight than he ever hoped to be, even if the Hound refused to be _called_ a knight.

Sansa reached forward, her fingers running along his cheeks, along scars and stubble and skin. She leaned forward, shifting as close as she could, mad at herself for ever pulling away to begin with.

“You’re the only one that can save me.”

She kissed him, holding his face so he couldn’t move. Of course, Sansa knew he _could_ if he really wanted to, but he didn’t. He wrapped an arm around her and kissed her back, tracing her spine underneath her dress. She shivered, kissed him harder, opened her mouth wider as he took control and tipped her back.

He tasted like wine still, and Sansa wondered if he ever _wouldn’t_ taste like wine. She didn’t dislike it though, it left her thirsty for more. She wanted to crawl inside his lips, into his skin, to rush through his veins and make his heart pound, like he did to her. She felt feverish and crazy as he gripped her hips, as he flipped her silently onto her back, loomed over her. Her fingers sank into his hair, and without thought her tongue darted against his lips.

The explosion she felt as his tongue slid against hers would have thrown her to her back, were she not there. She groaned, her hands ran down to his shoulders, his back, her nails digging in. She tried to thrust her body up towards him, succeeded in closing the distance, only to hear a sudden mummble.

In silent horror, Sansa remembered Arya was right next to her. The Hound realized too, and pulled back, standing in one fluid motion as Arya rolled over and opened her eyes in the dark.

“What’s going on?” she mumbled. Sansa’s breath was coming in short, quick gasps, her body still alive from the Hound’s touch, but horrified that she had forgotten Arya was right there.

“The little bird had a nightmare,” the Hound said, leaning over and fixing the blanket that covered Arya. She shrugged a little, then her eyes closed, and it was only moments before her breathing was soft and shallow again.

Sansa wanted to speak, but she kept silent. The Hound brushed some hair away from her cheek, then turned and walked away, settling into the chair against the door in the dark.

When Sansa awoke the next morning, she was the only one in the bed. Arya was up, stabbing at the air with a dagger she had gotten at Stone during the chaos. Compared to her tiny body, it was large, and a bit awkward. She handled it well though, and Sansa watched as she moved as if she had used steel before, many times.

Sansa wondered if she had. She realized how long it had been since she had seen Arya, and that she had grown much taller. She would never know what her sister went through outside the city walls, just as Arya would never truly know what Sansa went through within them.

Sansa sat up, looked around for the Hound, but didn’t see him.

“Arya,” she said as she slipped off the bed, “where’s the Hound?”

“He left earlier,” she said, swinging her dagger around.

“ _Left_?” Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat. “ _Where_?”

Arya shrugged and stopped moving. “I don’t know, he didn’t say. He just told me to stay in here.” She shrugged. “We should leave now. We could make it to Windertfell.”

“Alone?” Sansa asked as she stood up. Arya nodded. “Are you mad? We could never. We need the Hound. He’s the only reason we escaped the Eyrie.”

“He’s the reason _I_ was there.”

“Then you go,” Sansa said, annoyed. “I won’t. Not without him.” Arya glared at her, then turned away to continue with her dagger.

It was not long until the Hound walked back through the door, dressed in his leather and mail. He motioned for the girls, and Sansa put her cloak on, Arya following, dragging hers as she stuck her dagger in her belt.

Stranger was outside in the daylight, looking eager to leave. The snow had stopped, but it was still cold. The Hound lifted Arya onto the horse, but before he could mount, Sansa touched his arm, silently begging him to wait.

“Where did you go?” she asked, and he gave her a solemn look, unsmiling.

“Ladies aren’t meant to see some things, little bird.” Then he was atop Stranger, reaching down for her. Sansa took his hand and settled onto the horse as they began, her stomach tying itself in knots. She could forget when it was dark that the Hound was a killer, something he had admitted to her plenty of times. Hre was a killer, her father was, her brother was, her sons would be one day. Every man was a killer, and killers built empires.

And defended her. Her father had, her brother had waged a war against the Lannisters, even if it had not been for her, and now the Hound was running from both the Lannisters and Littlefinger’s men, just to take her back to Winterfell, a burnt and broken keep that was home to nothing but ash and memory.

“How will we get to Winterfell?” she asked as they road, quietly so only the Hound heard.

“We ride north,” he said, “and cut down anyone who would stand in our way.”

Sansa closed her eyes, let the cold wind sink into her hair. It smelled like winter, like home. She was still so far off, but do much closer than she had been. Even if she had no map, nor knew the exact route, Sansa knew she was a wolf, just as Arya was, and Winterfell called to them. The North called to them.

And who better to lead them home than a hound?


End file.
